


The Goyal Girl

by PotatoPuhtato



Series: The Goyal Girl [1]
Category: Indian Summers (TV)
Genre: Gen, New PoV Character, Other Characters (OC), Parallel Storyline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-06-06 22:19:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6772525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotatoPuhtato/pseuds/PotatoPuhtato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarita Goyal comes to Simla with a dream of contributing to her family's legacy. Can she do so without getting caught up in the intrigue and the drama in the summer capital of the Raj?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first historical fiction project, and while I have tried to remain as historically authentic as I can, please bear with me in the event of any inaccuracies. (And do let me know of them in the comments!)  
> The timeline largely stays true to the show's storyline, and main events stay unaltered: so you might want to look out for spoilers.

**_April 1932,_ ** **_  
_ **

**_Simla._ **

**_  
_** Sarita wiped her brow with the edge of her _sari_ and sighed. For all its fame as the summer capital, Simla seemed only a few degrees cooler than Delhi, where she had parted from her father a few hours ago. After a train ride up the scenic hills of the Himachal, she was now seated in a rickety _rickshaw_ that jolted as the old man pulling it jogged up the steep slopes to the small cottage that the Goyal family had recently acquired as their ‘summer home’. This trend was catching on amongst the Indian elite and Sarita’s father – though not elite _per se_ – liked to keep abreast with the British ways of living.

  
Brijlal Goyal was a fifth-generation textile merchant who had gained considerable wealth and success by deciding to diversify his family business into supplying cheap, sturdy Indian product to British milliners and haberdashers in and around Delhi. He had lost his beloved wife early in their marriage, but had not remarried. Brijlal thought himself to be progressive and modern, and had thus sent his only child, his darling Sarita, to Lahore to study further. As if this was not enough, he even took her on as his protégé at Goyal Textile Company. Much to the chagrin of family and friends, Brijlal encouraged his daughter’s knack for business, and by his fiftieth birthday, twenty-two year old Sarita was proving to be as worthy as her male cousins, if not better.

  
Of course, he would have liked a son and heir to carry his legacy forward – for even he knew that it was only a matter of time before Sarita was married off to beget sons and heirs for someone else. But until that day arrived, Brijlal wanted to indulge his daughter’s wish to be a part of the family’s business by letting her expand Goyal Textile Company to the town of Simla.

This had been Sarita’s pet project for a year now, and after laboriously establishing connections within the Simla business circuit she had finally decided that the time was ripe for her to go there herself and start the journey to a coveted spot for Goyal Textile Company on the famous Mall Road. And so, Sarita found herself in Simla in the summer of 1935, with a job at hand and the burning desire to prove to the world that Brijlal Goyal had not pampered his daughter with unwarranted freedom, and that she was indeed worthy of the Goyal legacy.

  
The _rickshaw_ turned the corner of the street where the Goyal cottage sat, sandwiched between other ‘summer homes’ recently leased by the upwardly mobile in Delhi and around. They were empty at present, but would fill up by the end of April and stay that way till October, when the Viceroy would return to Delhi. The government, too, came to Simla lock, stock and barrel for the seven months of summer; and with it moved anyone who aspired to be around the who’s who of the Raj. For the Indian aspirants, the Season started with the Sipi Fair. Thereafter, everybody would hope to catch a glimpse of the Viceroy so that they would have something to brag about when they went back to the plains. At the moment, however, Sarita was the sole resident on her end of the street.

  
The _rickshaw_ stopped in front of the rickety gate to Sumitra Nivas (named after Sarita’s mother). A small, fair woman stood waiting for Sarita. She folded her hands and introduced herself as Indu, the housemaid. She untied the bags from the back of the rickshaw while Sarita paid the old man an _anna_ for his efforts. Indu led Sarita inside the house, passing through the overgrown, parched garden. The cottage was made after the English fashion, and Brijlal had done away with the traditional indoor courtyard. Instead, they had a front garden, a vegetable patch behind the house, a bathtub to bathe in and a separate dining room that replaced the traditional practice of eating in the kitchen.  When questioned about the neglected garden and the dried-up ivy covering the façade of the cottage, Indu sheepishly promised that her husband would take care of it after his shift at the tea estate.She informed Sarita that she had drawn her a bath. “I will make you some tea till then, _bibi_ ,” she said in rustic Hindi. Sarita thanked her and headed to bathe, eager to wash off the dust and grime of the journey.

  
When she emerged, clean and fragrant, she saw that Indu had laid out a fresh _sari_ for her. She dressed herself and sat at the dressing table by the window. This was her boudoir, placed there at her request. She was very particular about having a proper place to do her hair. Her hair, you see, was what she prized the most. Sarita had altogether plain features and no one would even look at her twice if it wasn’t for her hair. They were thick and jet-black, falling to her breasts. She took great care as she oiled, combed and braided them to keep them lustrous enough to shine when the Indian sun fell on them, and they would always be the first thing anyone noticed about her. She wore her hair in the Edwardian fashion of the decades gone by; loose waves held in complex twists and tucks to give an appearance of languid elegance. Although the Englishwomen preferred to wear their hair short nowadays, Sarita never warmed up to their style. She stuck to her long black hair, and wherever she went, her trusted box full of hairpins, brushes and hair combs followed. This evening, she wore a Gibson tuck, her hands deftly moving in familiar patterns.

  
She went to the dining room, where Indu was laying out biscuits for her. “ _Bibi_ , should I unpack your suitcases now?” she asked, eyes averted as she poured out a cup of tea.“Yes, thank you, Indu.” Sarita’s polished Hindustani sounded at odds with Indu’s vernacular. “You needn’t touch the box on the boudoir, however. I shall see to it myself.” Indu left to unpack Sarita’s belongings, leaving her mistress to sip her evening tea in silence.  


*

 ~~~~ ~~~~  
No longer able to endure the oppressive quiet of the cottage once Indu had left for the evening, Sarita decided to take a stroll around Simla to acquaint herself with the sleepy town. She stepped out into the breeze, making her way up the slopes and into the streets of Simla.

The British had started coming in by the carriagefuls, and though their quarters were well-removed from the Indian settlements (and well-guarded, too: the segregation between the Raj and its subjects was not to be trifled with) the effects of their arrival could be seen in the streets. Locals readied themselves for seasonal employment as porters, servants, _ayahs_ , cooks and gardeners to the colonial masters; the government officials who moved up with the Raj’s administrative offices started settling down and the market came alive with things that would be in demand with the coming of the British. Bakeries started to stretch their legs, meat and wine sellers cracked their knuckles and Mall Road rubbed its palms together in anticipation of a profitable Season.

  
Sarita walked through the city streets, heading for the tea gardens. She was curious to see how tea was grown. It was the very stuff that breathed life into India every morning. Gandhiji didn’t seem to see much in the beverage, but having grown up in a household where everything English was looked at in appreciation, Sarita could not live without it. She had never been to Darjeeling, so now was as good a chance as any to visit the tea estates.

  
The sun hung low in the sky by the time she entered the quiet environs of the tea gardens, that carpeted terrace after terrace of the hills before her. She meandered along the paths between the bushes, following the stream of people making their way through the estate to the other side. She saw a smaller path to her left that peeled off from the gardens into a thicket of trees. It was calmer, quieter here – so Sarita set off down this path. It twisted and turned, and went farther and farther into the heart of the estate. This was a deserted path, so she guessed it led to a more private section of the estate. She kept an eye out for a ‘ _Keep Out_ _’_ sign, but she found none, so she kept walking until the trees that lined to road started to chirruping with crickets, and the sun began sliding faster and faster down the horizon.

  
She turned around and started walking back towards the public road, but she had a hard time keeping up with the route on her way in. As she stood at one of the diversions trying to remember which fork led to the tea gardens, she heard hooves pounding up one of the two paths. A man, clad in a _sola topi_ and a suit came into view, sitting atop a brown stallion. He would have passed for an Englishman, but Sarita noticed that he was Indian. His dark, stormy eyes surveyed the scene, frowning at Sarita. He halted in front of her and spoke in a steely voice.

  
“This is a private road, madam. You are trespassing.” His diction was polished to a degree that pointed at a foreign education.

Sarita decided to ignore his unnecessarily brusque manner and smiled at him. “I do beg your pardon; I did not know that. There was no sign, you see.”

The Indian narrowed his eyes. “Everyone knows that this is a private road. You seem to be new to the town.”

  
Sarita smoothed her hair, tucking a lock behind her ear. “I see. Would you be so kind as to point me in the right direction, then, so that I may not bother you anymore?” He spoke with such authority that she reckoned this was _his_ private road. Even so, he needn’t be so curt. Could he not see that she was from a respectable family?

  
“Down that road,” he pointed at the right fork with his horsewhip, settling his wooden gaze upon her.

  
She thanked him with pursed lips and started down the path. The horse whinnied behind her.

  
“Might I ask who you are?” he called after her, coldly. It sounded less like a question and more like a command.

  
Turning around, she looked at him squarely. “Sarita Goyal.” She waited for a reaction, but got none. “And you are the owner of this estate, I suppose? You certainly seem smug enough for the job.”

  
Something softened behind his stern gaze as he replied. “I am, yes. My name is Ramcharan Sood.” He touched his _sola topi_ in belated greeting.

  
“I wasn’t trying to smuggle myself onto your private grounds, Mr Sood. It was an honest mistake. Rest assured, however: you will not see me here again.”

  
“I wasn’t implying...you must understand, madam. There are stragglers that often–”

  
“I am _not_ a straggler, sir. You needn’t have been so terse. But you are right; I’m not from these parts. Perhaps this is the way outsiders are treated here." She paused for breath. "It is getting dark. I must be on my way.” She started down the path again, away from the rude plantation owner.

  
“I hope we meet again,” he called out after her.

  
“I doubt we will,” she shot back.

  
“I wouldn’t be so sure; this is a small town.” With that, he disappeared down the road, leaving Sarita fuming on her way back home.


	2. Chapter 2

Sarita hopped out of the rickshaw and smoothed the pleats of her sari. She paid the rickshaw-wallah his anna and he continued down the street in search of his next passenger. She was on the street behind Simla’s Town Hall, where she was to visit the offices of one of their English clients, a Mr Saunders.

Saunders was a milliner. He had been doing business with the Goyal Textile Company for over two years now. Sarita had taken over his account last year, and was counting on his support as she found her feet on Simla’s business circuit. He was a jovial man, not much older than her father. He didn’t seem to mind doing business with Indians, so they had a comfortable situation. Sarita had hoped that the regular correspondence would help her secure his friendship before she landed in Simla, and it had worked. Saunders had responded warmly when she sent him a note that she had arrived in Simla, and he invited her to tea the following morning, and a visit to his shop.

She entered the building that housed Mr Saunders’ offices and found that they comprised merely of two rooms: one for Saunders, and the other for his secretary. The secretary was a scrawny, bespectacled young Indian with his hair neatly oiled and parted down the centre. He asked Sarita to wait in Mr Saunders’ office while he fetched his boss. She did so, patting her hair in place. She wore it in a more elaborate style today, to ensure a good first impression.

Mr Saunders walked in noisily, greeting her and shaking her hand warmly. He was a portly fifty-five year old man with wispy blond hair that clung sparsely to the edge of his bald pate. He wore a shabby suit which had certainly seen better days, but his appearance though a little sloppy, wasn’t unclean.  
Sarita greeted him politely, noticing how he didn’t seem surprised at hearing her polished Indian accent. Usually, Englishfolk would be taken aback when she started speaking in the accent she’d laboured over during her days at university in Lahore. Mr Saunders, however, didn’t seem to find anything peculiar about her accent or the fact that she was Indian; and a woman to boot. He was now amiably chatting about being raised in Darjeeling from the age of five. Perhaps that explained his comfort with Indians.

“My uncle brought me up on his tea plantation in Darjeeling; I loved the hills, but couldn’t quite get used to life on the plantation. Too quiet, you see, lacked the hustle and the bustle. So when my uncle passed – God rest his soul – I sold up and made my way here. It’s still in the hills, just not that quiet, eh?” he laughed, thumping his desk. “Twenty years on, I have a nice little spot on the Mall. You won’t see me complaining! Say, would you like to see our humble little shop, Miss?”

“I thought Indians aren’t allowed on Mall Road before sunset!” Sarita mused.

“Well, you wouldn’t be on Mall Road, you’d be inside my shop,” he winked. “Besides, the constables who patrol the Road are friendly chaps. A foot of ribbon for their wives every few weeks buys us their silence.” He beckoned as he made his way out. “Come, come, Miss Goyal. We shall smuggle you in through the back door!”

As Sarita made her way to the shop with Mr Saunders, she saw how the pair of them attracted curious looks from the locals in the market. She nervously smoothed her hair and tried to concentrate on the old man’s account of his latest visit to Bombay. He had just seen his daughters off to England from there, and was hoping they would make good matches while they stayed with their aunt in Bath. “India isn’t for them, I’m afraid. It’s a pity they never warmed up to it; I should’ve wanted to see them make good lives for themselves in this land,” he shook his head at the loss. “Ah, here we are!” he said, recovering just as quickly. “Saunders and Co. Come on in!”

He ushered Sarita through the back door into a modest little shop. It had a sizeable collection of hats, but also on display were gloves, canes, coats, haberdashery and little trinkets. Responding to Sarita’s questioning look, Saunders shrugged. “We diversified, I suppose. Doesn’t hurt the business.”

Sarita smiled. “And you provide tailoring services as well, I suppose?” she mused, pointing at the three-piece suit propped in the display window. “Simla is safe in your hands, Mr Saunders!” she jested. Walking over to the suit, she examined the fabric, feeling the lapel. “Where do you get the cloth from?” she asked across the room.

The young secretary had found them and brought in a tray of tea and cakes. Saunders was now pouring out a cup for Sarita. “Some local chap; gives a good bargain. Why do you ask?”

“We deal in suiting and shirting fabric as well. One tends to look out for the family business.” She turned back to the suit, trying to figure out if Goyal Textile Company could supply better cloth and increase its business with Saunders and Co. She was no expert, since it was her uncle who handled suiting at the Company. She made a mental note to find out.

Just then, a young man appeared on the other side of the glass, stopping to look at the suit on display. He was English, tall and light-eyed; he wore a suit and a hat and had an unkempt air about him: a bit like Saunders. He noticed Sarita standing beside the display, and frowned. Sarita bit her lip; suppose he got her arrested for breaking the law?

However, another man appeared at the window and started speaking to the young Englishman. Sarita recognised him as the haughty plantation owner, Mr Sood. Retreating slightly, she observed the scene from the shadows. Sood had barely got a few words in before a Sikh constable turned up on the scene, herding Sood away. The young man looked a little dazed by the interaction. Sarita asked Saunders if he knew who the Englishman was.

Saunders squinted at the glass window, “Don’t recognise him. Must be fresh off the boat; a merchant or a trader, by the look of him.” He proffered a cup of hot, fragrant tea. “We’ll know soon enough. Cake?”

*

It was the day of the Sipi Fair, and Simla woke up to a bright morning. Sarita had spent the last few days meeting Mr Saunders’ merchant friends. Most of the English traders were condescending because she was Indian; the Indian ones were dismissive of her because she was a woman. It set her teeth on edge. Nevertheless, she socialised with them, forcing herself to be charming and winsome. She had learned long ago that this was the only way she could get things done. Thus, by being deferential to the English and agreeable to the Indians, she was making a place for herself amongst them. She was even hopeful of securing a deal or two for Goyal Textile Company in the next few weeks. Mr Saunders had promised to introduce Sarita to some more of his friends at the Fair.

The Sipi Fair was the only time of the year when Indians were permitted entry to the Royal Simla Club, which otherwise sported a plaque reading ‘No Dogs or Indians’ outside its gates. Sarita wore her best sari – one with little pink flowers on it – and secured her hairdo with her best carved ivory comb. She asked Indu to fetch her a rickshaw to take her up till the Club. At the gates, Indians were being made to queue up on one side, their names were written down and the men were frisked by the constabulary. The English, of course, strolled in at leisure, unrestricted.

Half an hour later, Sarita was allowed through to the gardens. She felt uneasy among so many of the British. The women wore dresses in pastel shades with dainty hats on their short, stylishly curled hair and held cigarettes in their hands. The menfolk roamed around with drinks in their glasses and chatted to each other in groups of twos and threes. Before long, an old woman – English, of course – stepped on the dais built in the middle of the garden and started to speak. She welcomed everybody to the Sipi Fair, and asked everyone to enjoy all that the Club had to offer. Everybody applauded, and made their way to the many stalls offering food, games and trinkets.

It was ten more minutes before Sarita spotted Mr Saunders. “Ah, Miss Goyal! Lovely! This is the young lady I was telling you about, Sahoo,” he gestured to a short, dark man sporting a moustache. Sarita smiled as Saunders introduced her to the men he was standing with. “Meet Mr Sahoo, an old friend from Darjeeling. And this is Mr Clemens; he used to work at the viceregal office here, but is now posted in Lucknow.”

Clemens was a frail looking man who smiled uncertainly at Sarita. “Saunders tells me you are looking to apply for a permit to open up shop on the Mall?” Sarita nodded. “Well then, allow me to introduce you to some of my colleagues who may be able to help you..." And thus, Sarita spent the good part of next hour exchanging pleasantries with officials and other Indian guests who claimed to have mutual acquaintances with her father or her uncle.

Saunders entertained her by pointing out the who’s who of Simla’s Society. “See that smart chap with the slicked-back hair? That’s Ralph Whelan, Private Secretary to His Excellency, The Viceroy himself. Any tricky pickle you’re in, he’s the man you want: provided you can get hold of him, that is. That’s his sister, Alice – that one, there, with the Indian chap.” He frowned, squinting. “Who is that? Sukumar!” he beckoned his bespectacled secretary from Mr Clemens side. “Say, who is that Indian walking with Alice Whelan?”

Sukumar followed Saunders’ gaze and observed the strapping young Indian, with his hair neatly parted and his hands behind his back as he conversed with the blonde-haired Ms Whelan. “That is Mr Dalal. Head clerk to the Private Secretary. He took a bullet for Mr Whelan, don’t you know?” Sukumar told them how a terrorist had tried to shoot Ralph Whelan at the gates of this very Club a few weeks ago. They suspected he worked for the Indian National Congress. The young Parsee had taken the shot and escaped death narrowly. “Now, he is head clerk! Some people have all the luck.” He sighed, clearly envious of Dalal’s fortune.

“What about the woman who opened the fair?” Sarita asked. “The one with the colourful dress and the loud manner?”

“That is Cynthia Coffin, the proprietor of the Royal Simla Club. She is the dragon lady of the Society here; everything and everyone must pass through her. She decides whether you’re in or out. The all-seeing eye of Simla, you could say.”

Sarita laughed nervously. “Sounds like a dangerous woman.”

“She is,” Saunders nodded, “but you needn’t worry about her. Unless you displease her in some way, of course. Then you’ll have hell to pay!” He gazed over Sarita’s shoulder, distracted. His eyes widened. “By Jove, what is happening!?”

Behind her, two men had fallen on the ground, locked in a brawl. The assailant was a middle-aged Englishman who was shouting incoherently. The other man was Ramcharan Sood. He was trying to fight off his attacker, but failing. Before bystanders separated the two men, the Englishman had managed to injure him enough to draw blood.

“It’s Armitage! Is he drunk again? Why is he cudgelling poor Ramu Sood?” Saunders exclaimed, rushing to the spot. Sarita trailed behind him. The commotion had died down, and the angry Mr Armitage was being placated by some of the English guests. Sarita noticed that amongst them was the young man she had seen on Mall Road the other day: the one Mr Sood had tried speaking to. As she passed by him, she could hear him pacifying the livid man in a Scottish brogue. He wasn’t English, then, Sarita noted dimly.

She followed Saunders as he went up to Sood. Everyone had huddled up around Armitage, giving the Indian diasprroving looks. “My dear man, what happened?” Saunders asked, taking him aside. Sarita and Saunders were the only ones who had bothered to come to his aid.

“I asked Mr Armitage to pay the debts he owes me; he expressed his displeasure – quite publicly, I’m afraid.” Sood panted, trying to dust off his now-dirty suit.

Saunders huffed. “Let me go and speak some sense into him. You better retreat to somewhere less visible, Ramu. Cynthia Coffin doesn’t look very pleased with you.” He turned to Sarita. “Miss Goyal, would you mind keeping Mr Sood company until I return?” he dove into the huddle of people around Mr Armitage.

Ramu Sood looked at Sarita, and their eyes met. For all his smugness at their last meeting, Sarita felt sorry for him in this state. Wounded and shunned, he had been humiliated in front of all of Simla, for no fault of his own. As a fellow Indian, she empathised with him and decided to bury the hatchet. She walked with him to the back of the club, where servants were rushing in and out carrying laden trays of food and drink out to the fair. On their way, she told Sukumar to find them some cotton and dressing for Mr Sood’s wounds.

They sat waiting for him in silence, until Ramu cleared his throat. “You must think I got what I deserved, after our last encounter.”

“Of course not, Mr Sood,” Sarita said, softly. “No one deserves to be humiliated like that. But I suppose that is the bane of being a subject of the Raj.”

Sood scoffed. “All I ask of him is what is rightfully mine. Am I to pay for his mistakes simply because he is British and I am not?”

“Everyone out there certainly seems to think so.” she paused as Sukumar returned with the first aid box. The two of them cleaned up Ramu’s scrapes and Sukumar left to return the box to the Club.

“What will you do now?”

“I don’t know. I’ve tried speaking to his nephew, but he doesn’t seem too eager to go against his uncle.”

“The tall Scot?”

Ramu nodded. “Mr McLeod. He has only just arrived to India. I thought he could knock some sense into his drunken uncle, but instead he joins Armitage at the Club in drinking himself senseless! There is no hope.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Sood. I really am.” Sarita said with genuine emotion.

He held her gaze for a moment. With a small, sad smile, he replied “Please, call me Ramu.”


	3. Chapter 3

A couple of months had passed since the Sipi Fair, and Sarita had been busy. She had found a small bakery on Mall Road that was going to shut down soon – the owner, a Mr Ronan, wished to return to England for his twilight years and was looking to dispose of the property. Sarita had offered to buy the place. She planned to renovate the shop to serve as Goyal Textile Company’s first outlet in Simla. She had engaged an architect to draw up floor plans and calculate estimates while she applied for permission from the British government. She made countless visits to the Simla government offices to complete the piles of paperwork needed for the application. The officials told her that it would a long-winded process since few Indians were allowed to open shop on the Mall; however, if she paid all the dues and waited patiently for the official nod, the permit would be in her hands by August.

Sarita had gotten used to life in Simla. She didn’t have much of an Indian social circle, and the Englishwomen were an exclusive bunch: with the hawk-eyed Cynthia Coffin guarding its doors. Sarita didn’t mind the lack of social commitments, however. She spent her spare mornings visiting Mr Saunders on Mall Road, sneaking in through the back door for a cup of tea. He would grumble good-naturedly about how Sarita’s shop would rob him of all his business. Sarita would then assure him, giggling, that Saunders & Co would be mercifully spared when she took over Mall Road.

She also visited Ramu Sood on his tea plantation. Ever since the Sipi Fair, he had grown friendlier towards her and invited her to evening walks through the gardens with him. Through their conversation, Sarita found out that he was grieving for his wife and child, both of whom he had lost to childbirth. Sarita would try and cheer him up, and on some occasions it would even work. They weren’t seeing much of each other lately, however. Sarita had been busy with the shop, and Ramu had been cementing his partnership with the young Ian McLeod.

Soon after the Sipi Fair, an ailing Mr Armitage had left for Scotland, handing over his debt-ridden plantation to his nephew. He had died en route, however, and now Ramu hoped to convince the new owner to lend his name to the Sood business – an arrangement that would benefit them both. They started spending a lot of time together, and Sarita stopped visiting Mr Sood as often. Ian McLeod made her uncomfortable, with his strange-sounding brogue and his perpetual drunkenness. If they ever did run into each other, their interaction was limited to polite greeting.

Indu’s husband, true to his word, had worked to restore the garden to its former glory. Sarita now took her breakfast in the garden, sitting at the beautiful wrought-iron garden table that Indu had brought out from the storeroom. One such morning, as she sat sipping her tea in the bone china tea set (her father insisted on using delicate, English-style china and cutlery even for everyday use, just like the English), Indu brought her scandalous gossip. A body had turned up in the lake near the town.

“A woman, _bibi_. They are saying the children from Mr Raworth _saab_ ’s mission school found her floating on the water. What a fright they must’ve had!”

“Do they know who she was?” Sarita asked, mildly alarmed.

Indu shrugged. “An outsider, probably. Otherwise someone would’ve identified her by now. My friend’s cousin is a constable here, bibi, and he says she might have been murdered!”

“Poor woman,” Sarita lamented. “May she rest in peace,” she smoothed the pleats of her _sari_ as she stood up, ready to leave for town. “Fetch me a rickshaw, Indu; I shall be home for lunch. But I need you to make an effort: if you serve potatoes for one more meal, I swear I shall go mad!”

 

As Sarita walked towards the Town Hall, she ran into Ramu Sood. “Mr Sood! You look...troubled.” she trailed off, observing his scowl.

He started, noticing her belatedly and his expression changing to one of great urgency. “I have been robbed, Miss Goyal. But that isn’t the worst of it!” he motioned to her walk with him, rushing away from the heart of the town.

“Dear me, you are in a hurry, aren’t you!” she struggled to keep up with him. “What’s wrong?” she panted.

“I’m in great trouble. I must flee before the police catches up with me.” Sood hailed a rickshaw and they both hopped in. He directed the rickshaw-wallah to take them to his tea estate before turning to Sarita and launching into an explanation. “A few nights ago, my wife’s wedding _sari_ was stolen from my house; it was the only thing I had left of her. I was furious, naturally, but I had resigned myself to think that it was lost forever. However, it _did_ turn up...”

The body found in the lake was clad in the _sari_. The dead woman had been identified as Jaya Mohan, who had been working on Sood’s plantation for a few weeks before she was found dead. Oblivious to all this, Sood had gone into town to lodge a formal complaint about the theft, just in case it led somewhere. That was when his aide Prakash had intercepted him, telling him to leave town right away: the police had found out about the theft of the sari, and planned to pin the murder on him.

“They are preparing a warrant for my arrest as we speak. If I do not flee within the hour, I’m a dead man.”

Sarita felt an odd chill creep up her spine. “You have an alibi, don’t you?”

Ramu tightened his lips. “I was with Ian McLeod the night that woman was killed. He was the one who told the police about the _sari_ ; he was there when I found out it was stolen!” He shook his head. “I don’t have much on my side, Sarita.”

“You aren’t the killer, are you Ramu?” Sarita began uncertainly. “You didn’t murder her because she stole your wife’s –”

“Of course not! I have never seen the woman!” Sood spat. “They are punishing me: for being too ambitious, for trying to get ahead of my proper place. This is how they will cut me down to size, you see?”

“Don’t say that! No one can convict you for a crime you did not commit! Father says the British sense of fair play –”

“My cousin,” Sood mumbled, his gaze fixed at a distance, thinking hard. He hadn’t heard a word of what Sarita had been saying. “My cousin lives in Patna. His name is Ajay Sood. Would you send him a message; tell him I’ll need a lawyer. A good one. Prakash will give you his address…”

Sarita stared at him, aghast. Not only was he resigning to injustice, he was planning for a trial, as if he was sure it was inevitable! She grabbed his arm and shook it, “Aren’t you even going to _try_ to put up a fight?!”

Ramu looked at her, his face suddenly calm. “I will try, but it’s no use. They are the rulers, our masters; they always win.”

*

 

It was late at night, and Sarita paced up and down her garden, still in her day clothes. Her hair had escaped from her pins and combs and flew across her face in the night breeze. A kerosene lamp sat on the garden table, burning dimly at the quiet, dark hour.

Sarita was waiting for word from – or of – Ramu Sood. At the estate that morning, Ramu had said he would gather a few belongings and flee Simla. He had told Sarita he would send word with his man Prakash if he needed her to contact his cousin in Patna. Sarita, who now shared his premonition, had felt panic grip her as she climbed into the rickshaw to leave before the police arrived.

“Don’t let them take you, Mr Sood.” Worry creased her forehead. “I promise to do everything in my power to help you.”

“I cherish your friendship, Miss Goyal; regardless of what happens next.” With that, she had bid him farewell.

She had lingered around the police station, trying to keep track of all the constables riding in and out. Were they talking about Mr Sood? Had the search party found him yet? She wondered how people were going about their business: bustling around town, shopping on the Mall and walking hand-in-hand up to the Royal Simla Club. How ignorant they were of the witch-hunt underway!

She went to Mr Saunders to ask for his help in the event of a trial. The old man had very gently, very kindly told her he couldn’t. Ramu was his friend, but he couldn’t be disloyal to the very people who gave him his daily bread, could he?

Sood’s aide Prakash had spotted her at noon and told her to stay at home, where she would be safer from being spotted by the police and being brought in for questioning. “I will come to you with the news myself,” he had said.

And so, reluctantly, she had returned to Sumitra Nivas. She had barely touched her dinner and had dismissed Indu when she had asked what was troubling _bibi_. Now, at ten o’clock, she was pacing in the garden, straining her ears for the sound of footsteps among the crickets. They were faint at first, but soon she heard someone coming up the road to the cottage. She ran to open the gate for Prakash, but it wasn’t him. In his place stood the tall Scot, Ian McLeod.

Perhaps he had lost his way. But he looked at Sarita, and touched the brim of his hat. “Miss Goyal.”

Sarita looked over his shoulder, looking for Prakash. “What are you –”

“They’ve arrested him,” he mumbled in his thick brogue. “Ramu. On the charge of killing the woman.”

Sarita winced. So it had happened: just as Ramu Sood had feared it would. “They can’t hold him for long when they don’t have evidence against him. They’ll have to release him in a day or two.”

McLeod looked crestfallen. “I don’t think it’ll be that simple. He’ll need help. His man told me Ramu spoke to you before he left town? About contacting his cousin in Patna? I’ll send a telegram first thing in the morn –”

“Oh no, Mr McLeod,” Sarita cut in. “You will do _nothing_. You are the reason Mr Sood is in prison right now. If you had not spoken to the police, they wouldn’t have gotten the idea of pinning it on him. So _you_ ,” she pointed at his chest, her jaw set, “will do nothing.”

The Scot looked at his feet, face reddening. “Look, I know it was foolish of me to…”

“It was, yes. So now, _I_ will send the telegram tomorrow, and _I_ will visit Mr Sood in prison to work out what we must do next.”

“Please, I want to help. Let me help.”

He seemed so contrite, that Sarita icy resolve faltered. Her tone softened a little. “Of course you will help; it is your duty. We shall work together. I only insist that you refrain from any more well-meaning attempts, lest they make matters worse.” She held the garden gate open for the guilt-ridden young man.

“And now Mr McLeod, I bid you good night.”


	4. Chapter 4

It was a humid, wet morning. Simla was receiving summer showers for the last two days, and the grey gloom which now enveloped the summer capital mirrored Sarita’s own state of mind. She made her way up the stairs of the dingy building that housed the offices of Mr Vinod Mukesh, Ramu Sood’s attorney for the murder trial that was now underway.

Sarita’s mind kept going back to the first time she had visited Ramu in prison. He had been sitting alone in the dark, stinking cell, his face beaten to a pulp. They had forced him to confess to murdering the woman and were now preparing for a proper inquest. When Sarita had seen his state, she had felt nauseous. She had asked him how she could help.

“There is nothing to be done.” Ramu had replied calmly. He had resigned himself to what he thought to be his fate: death. Sarita had visited him twice since, and despite her repeated assurances – which had started to sound hollow, even to her own ears – Ramu only smiled ruefully. She wanted desperately to help, and she found herself visiting the lawyer almost daily for any news of a breakthrough.

She was still disapproving of Ian McLeod’s involvement in their efforts to save Ramu, since it was his indiscretion that had drawn the police’s attention to Sood as a suspect. However, he was the only one of the colonials that they had on their side. The British, led by Cynthia Coffin, all had it in for Ramu Sood: the man who had dared to become their equal by taking over the Armitage estate in all but name. So she remained civil towards McLeod as they saw more of each other. It was clear that he felt responsible for Ramu’s wrongful imprisonment and that he wanted to help but between themselves, they were fast running out of hope.

It was with this frame of mind that she knocked on the lawyer’s door that morning.

“Ah, Miss Goyal!” said the middle-aged Indian. He sounded joyous: a rarity since the trial had begun. “I have news!” he gestured for her to sit down.

Sarita took a seat, smiling tightly. “Good news, I hope?”

“A woman has come forward. Leena Prasad; do you know her? She is an assistant at the mission school.”

Sarita shook her head. She did vaguely recall seeing a Eurasian woman with the British missionary Raworth; but she’d never met her in person.

“Miss Prasad paid me a visit yesterday. She informed me that the dead woman was the mother of one of the boys in her mission school.”

“And?”

“The identity of the father is unknown; Miss Prasad suspects that it might have something to do with the murder.” He observed Sarita’s frown and elaborated. “The boy – Adam – is a bastard, quite possibly fathered by one of the Englishmen here in Simla. Jaya’s murder could be a way to ensure her silence about the matter.”

Sarita inhaled sharply. “If we can prove Ramu was framed, he will be acquitted, yes?”

“Perhaps. But proving that might be difficult. No, I have something else in mind...Miss Prasad has agreed to appear in court; we might stand a chance.”

Sarita got up to leave, reminding the lawyer, as she always did, to let her know if she could do anything at all. On her way out, she ran into Ian McLeod. He touched the brim of his hat in greeting.  
“Here to see the lawyer?”

“Yes, just to know if there was anything I could do,” she said, her tone not unkind.

“I wished to speak to you about that, actually.” In response to Sarita’s raised brow, he continued. “I was at the Club last night and I found out that Cynthia plans on testifying against Ramu in court tomorrow. She has it in for him ever since that scuffle between him and my uncle at the Sipi Fair, you’ll remember.”

Sarita scoffed. “It was your uncle who started the fight. Everyone who was there knows that!”  
Ian nodded. “Exactly! You were there, you could testify to that. You could be our counter-witness to Cynthia!”

“You realise it’ll be my word against Cynthia Coffin’s? Who do you think they’ll believe, Mr McLeod? Besides, you are Mr Sood’s alibi. If your testimony can’t save him, nothing will.”

“Nonsense; we need as many people to speak for us in court as possible and you are one of them. Don’t you want to help?” McLeod’s eyes looked baggy and tired; he had been drinking again.

Sarita hesitated momentarily. “I can’t. My father has forbidden me.”

“Forbidden you? What do you mean?” McLeod spluttered.

“I...I had a letter from him yesterday. He says that our business is suffering because of rumours that I am involved in this trial. He has forbidden me from doing anything that links Goyal Textile Company to this murder trial; he orders me to keep my head down and not make trouble for the family.”

Now it was McLeod’s turn to scoff. His childlike features were etched with fury at her betrayal. “For all your holier-than-thou righteousness, you abandon us first chance you get, eh? I thought Ramu was your friend!”

“I’m not _abandoning_ anything!” Sarita snarled, furious at his accusation.“I am still willing to do whatever I can to help Mr Sood. But I cannot disobey my father, sir! If I stand here, unmarried at the age of twenty-three and handling my family’s business here in Simla, it is because my father has let me do so. I owe my freedom to him, and I cannot forget that! I will not appear in court, because he does not wish it. It may sound absurd to you, but my decision is final.”

“So you are willing to let Ramu rot in prison because it comes in the way of your freedom?”

Sarita flinched at the contempt in McLeod’s voice. “I have no choice. If I disobey, I will be summoned back to Delhi. At least this way, I can help with following up on leads away from the public eye.” She paused, trying to keep her voice steady. “Mr McLeod, you must understand: I cannot choose between my duty as a friend and as a daughter. Please do not make me.”

 

*

_Bibi..Bibi…_

The voice seemed to come from far away, faint and weak. Sarita wanted to look for its source, but she couldn’t move. Her eyes were fixed unseeingly on the grass below her feet. There was a ringing in her ears that was broken only by the intermittent wave of crushing sadness that gripped her, bringing with it hot, burning tears which left her eyes swollen and her head pounding. Then the numbness would return. It had taken hold of her even in that moment, as she heard the voice call out to her; but she couldn’t move to see who it was.

“ _Bibi_!” Indu shook Sarita roughly by the shoulder, making her start. She looked around – at Indu, at the garden, the wrought-iron table she was sitting at – as if only just noticing them.

“ _Bibi_ , you are scaring us,” the housemaid said. Her husband stood behind her, peering anxiously at Sarita’s face. “You have barely touched your food,” Indu gestured at the now-cold breakfast she had laid out an hour ago. “You have a fever, too. Should I send for the doctor _saab_?”

Sarita shook her head. “I –” her voice was hoarse from disuse. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “I’m fine. I’m not hungry right now, Indu. You may take the tray away.”

Indu and her husband continued to stand there, looking at her with wide eyes. She grew irritated. When she announced that she fancied a nap, Indu exclaimed “At ten in the morning?! I really should send for doctor _saab_.”

As Sarita lay in bed, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling, she thought about everything that had happened in the last week. Ramu’s trial had gone badly: despite Leena Prasad’s testament in court and Mr Mukesh’s best efforts to parry the English prosecutor who tore every one of their witnesses to shreds, even the impassioned Mr McLeod. He had defended his friend ardently, but had not managed to get a verdict in their favour.

Ramu Sood had been sentenced to death by hanging for the murder of Jaya Mohan.

Sarita – who hadn’t attended the trial as her father had commanded her – had been distraught when she heard of it. But she didn’t visit him in the days before they were to hang him; how could she have faced him? She wished she could have done more. She wanted to see him one last time because if she was to be truthful, she had grown fond of him during their short acquaintance. He had been a kind man, a good man. Perhaps she would even have come to love him some day. And for the sake of what might have been, she wanted to bid him goodbye before he walked to the gallows.

But she could not bring herself to do it. The night before his hanging, Sood sent her a note:

_I wish to thank you for all your efforts with regards to this trial; I know you did your best to save me. I do not blame anyone for my fate, and neither should you._  
_I cherish your friendship – in life and in death._

Sarita had collapsed in tears, and had remained in that state until the next evening: well after Ramu Sood’s ashes had cooled.

That was five days ago.

Now, she lay in bed, trying to think ahead. Ramu Sood was gone, but her sorrow was to be swept aside by a recent, more urgent development: that afternoon, she received another letter from her father. He had chastised her for not steering clear the Sood trial. Now Goyal Textile Company had lost practically all their business in Simla and as word travelled to Delhi, more would follow. He ordered her to come back home before she did any more damage. She had three days to wind up.

Not that there was much to do: her application for the permit to conduct business on Mall Road had been denied within a week of the start of the trial, no doubt as a result of her involvement in it. Mr Saunders and his friends had kept their distance and whatever few Indian friends she had ostracised her. She had sullied her family name and risked her own reputation, they said – roaming all over town all alone at odd hours, all in the name of ‘helping’ with the case. On a few occasions, they had even seen her with the notorious Mr McLeod; and everyone knew of his intoxicated, womanising ways!

So Sarita had nothing left, here in Simla. Her dream of adding to the Goyal family legacy was ruined – by her own hands. She regretted nothing she had done to help Ramu, but her heart broke at the death of everything had so lovingly nurtured. She had no choice but to return home, whereupon her father would get her married before the year ended: of this she was sure. If she was lucky, she could beg and plead with him to push the wedding to the next year, but he would not indulge her like he used to.

She could imagine her uncles and their sons biting at Brijlal’s heels, baying for Sarita’s blood. They had always disapproved of her involvement in the family business. Now they would pressure Brijlal into marrying his daughter immediately, citing that there had been enough mucking around in the name of modernity and that Sarita’s proper place was next to a suitable boy as his wife, bearing his children and serving his family. The next three days were perhaps all she had left of her freedom.

And so she decided to act. She bathed, dressed and sat at her boudoir and for the first time in a week, meticulously did her hair.

Her dream for Goyal Textile Company could not be salvaged: at least not in the near future. But some things she could repair before she left Simla.


	5. Chapter 5

  
Walking up to the shabby house on the Armitage estate, Sarita knocked on the door. She smoothed her hair and composed her features in readiness.

The door was opened, however, not by Ian McLeod but by a young Indian woman with kohl-lined eyes. She wore her sari in the Gujarati fashion, and her hair was tightly pulled into a bun. Her features were pleasant, but oddly obstinate. She looked inquiringly at Sarita. Ian McLeod appeared at the woman’s shoulder, looking surprised.

“Mr McLeod,” Sarita said uncertainly, “Is this a bad time?” she looked from the kohl-eyed woman to the Scot, trying to fathom if she had stumbled upon something she shouldn’t have.

The woman exclaimed, “I was just leaving.”

“Oh no, please don’t leave on my account,” Sarita smiled politely, recovering from the initial surprise. “I can come by later.”

“No, I really was leaving,” the woman said. As if sensing Sarita's confusion, McLeod introduced the woman.

“Miss Goyal, I don’t suppose you’ve met Miss Dalal? She helped Mr Mukesh during the trial...she hopes to become a barrister one day.”

Sarita shook hands. “You must be Mr Dalal’s sister. My name in Sarita. Do accept my gratitude for your assistance in the trial. Mr Sood would’ve appreciated your help Miss Dalal; I’m sure of it.”

“Please, call me Sooni!” she replied. “You have my sympathies, Sarita _ji_. Mr Ian tells me Ramu Sood was a close friend of yours.”With the pleasantries out of the way, Sooni Dalal took her leave and Sarita followed Ian McLeod into his veranda.

The remnants of the Parsee girl’s visit sat on a low table in the form of teacups and biscuit crumbs. Sarita sat perched on a low chintz chair, her hands clasped in her lap. McLeod put the kettle on and replenished the plate of biscuits.

“Mr McLeod, I’m here to make amends.”

The Scot frowned. “What for?”

Sarita let out a long breath before launching into what she’d rehearsed on her way there. “On Mr Sood’s last night, he sent me a note. He said that he didn’t blame anyone for what had happened.” She tried not to think about the hanging. “I may not have been present in court, but I know how you defended him, Mr McLeod – even at the price of being shunned by every Englishman in Simla! I hear Cynthia Coffin has banned you from the Royal Simla Club—”

“Think nothing of it,” McLeod waved her away. “I never felt like I was one of them anyway.”

“That isn’t all, is it? My housemaid told me what you did with Mr Sood’s ashes: stealing them away from under Inspector Roundtree’s nose to give him a proper farewell…you are a hero to every commoner on the streets of Simla.” She smiled weakly at him. “I wish I could be half as loyal a friend to Ramu as you were.”

“I’m sure you would’ve done the same for him.” McLeod slid a cup of tea in her direction, eyes averted.

“But I didn’t, did I? Instead, for the length of the trial, I blamed you for what had happened – in part, at least. Oh, I’ve been horrid to you, Mr McLeod! I am truly sorry. You were Mr Sood’s greatest friend, and you deserve better than being ostracised by your people for helping him. I would know!” She leaned forward, her eyes beseeching. “I hope you will accept my sympathy and my friendship, both of which I proffer with the utmost respect and affection.”

Ian McLeod sat across the table in contemplative silence. “Miss Goyal – may I call you Sarita? If we are to be friends, Sarita…I suppose I too have an apology to make. You did all you could to help free our friend Ramu, and I am sorry for undermining your efforts.” His eyes were still tired, but they crinkled as he smiled at her.

“And now, we shall talk no more of it. A toast,” he held up his teacup, “to being each other’s only friend in Simla.”

“Perhaps a toast needs something stronger, Mr McLeod?” Sarita jested.

“Ian, please. And just tea for me, thanks – I’ve given up drinking. To think of all the trouble it has got me into…d’you know, if it wasn’t for Sooni, I would have been lying here drunk even on the day I had to testify in court.” He shook his head. “Really helped me snap out of it, she did.”

Sarita had an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach upon hearing this. “I am not your only friend in Simla then.” Her voice sounded oddly shrill to her ears. “You’ve found a good friend in Miss Dalal!”

“I suppose I have,” McLeod said, frowning slightly. “She is very determined; much like you.”

Sarita smiled tightly. “You’re too kind. But I am glad that you find us similar;” she set her teacup down carefully, “this way, you will hardly miss my company when I leave.”

Ian McLeod cocked his head to one side inquiringly.

“I have been summoned back to Delhi for disobeying my father’s orders; he is furious with me. I leave in three days’ time.”

“Oh.” They sat in silence for a few moments before McLeod asked, “But what about your business here? Weren’t you sent here to—”

“Expand? Yes. But that doesn’t matter anymore. My uncles never liked the fact that I had more head for business than all their sons combined, and now is their chance to scream blue murder. They will hold this against me as an excuse to not allow me anywhere near the Company. Families like ours do not take kindly to women who know their mind, you see.” she scoffed.

“Surely you wouldn’t go down without a fight?” Ian leaned in, sounding outraged but not unkind.

Sarita smiled ruefully. “I will certainly try not to.” She stood up, smoothing the pleats of her sari. “But right now, if you don’t mind, I would like to forget about what is to come. Wouldn’t you show me around your estate, Mr McLeod; and tell me about your life in Scotland, perhaps.” She smiled broadly at him, motioning him to follow her outside. “If we are friends, we have an awful lot to talk about before we part, don’t you think?”

* * *

 

**_June 1935,_ **

**_Simla._ **

Sarita sat by the window in the Simla-Kalka train, still disbelieving of the fact that she was making a journey up to Simla once again. As she had boarded this very train to return to Delhi three years ago, she was sure that she would never return to Simla again. The town symbolised a bittersweet period of her life – she had received momentary happiness in the guise of a promising career and a few good friends, but within a fortnight, it had all been snatched away from her. Things had looked so very bleak…

And yet, here she sat: unmarried at twenty-six. It was a miracle, really, given how her family had been determined to marry her before the year 1932 ended. But it turned out that no one in their circles was quite ready to consider her for their sons due to rumours they had heard about her rather close ‘friendship’ with the Scotsman McLeod while up in Simla. So even halfway into 1933, Sarita remained a spinster.

She’d been relieved, of course: she’d been too busy coaxing her father to let her help him with the family business again. Her father loved her too much to refuse her anything; so in front of his brothers and their sons, he made a great fuss about the Simla debacle but heeded Sarita’s advice in private. She had to her silent credit three new outlets of Goyal Textile Company in Amritsar and Lahore.

But as time passed, people forgot about Sarita’s time in Simla, and in December of 1933 Brijlal Goyal invited Mr Gopaldas Tripathi (of Tripathi Mills) to tea with the intention of discussing Sarita’s marriage to his son, Dinesh. Dinesh Tripathi was an assistant professor of Economics at the Presidency College, Calcutta. He was thirty to Sarita’s twenty-four, and found favour with her father due to his ‘modern’ views. Sarita could find no obvious fault with her suitor – he seems kind, smart and cultured, and treated her with respect. She could put off the betrothal no longer, and they were engaged in early 1934.

Both families wished that they be wed without delay. Then Sarita’s uncle passed away, and the family was plunged in grief. According to tradition, there were to be no celebrations for a year.

In January 1935, Dinesh was sent to London by the College for seven months and the marriage was postponed yet again. Everyone now expected it to take place as soon as Dinesh returned in August.

Sarita didn’t really have much to do during this interlude, and she grew bored of embroidering doilies for her dowry – so when her cousin was advised by the doctor to take the summer somewhere cooler on account of her health, she leaped at the chance. The Goyals had retained their summer home in Simla, and that was where Kaveri would live there until her health improved. Sarita begged to chaperone her sickly cousin. “Chacha _ji_ ,” she coaxed her stubborn uncles, “there is nothing left in Simla that I can ruin, is there? I merely wish to take the air so that I may look fresher at my wedding!” With Kaveri’s help, Sarita had convinced her family.

And so, she was to reside in Sumitra Nivas with her twenty-year-old cousin for the next two months. She did not wish to think of what would happen after she returned to Delhi.

“Sarita _didi_ , I think I’m going to be sick.” Kaveri said weakly. Her sunken eyes were squeezed shut in discomfort, and her frail body was rocking with the train’s rhythm. Her scraggly hair – so unlike Sarita’s – always managed escape her tight oiled plait: something that drove her mother mad. Kaveri had not studied post matriculation, and preferred to speak in Hindi whenever she could. Her parents wanted to get her married, but no one wanted a bride who was always unwell. Kaveri liked Sarita because she was kind to her, and she would rather Sarita accompanied her to Simla than her irritable mother.

“Here, come sit by the window, get some air.” Sarita switched places with the poor girl. The first sights of Simla were now visible at a distance, and she tried distracting Kaveri by pointing them out to her. “See that thicket of tress at the very top of the town? That’s the Royal Simla Club. .and that sliver of road you see winding down from there – that leads to the Mall. Would you like to see it? We shall go, one of these evenings…”

Kaveri followed her pointing fingers as she listened in awe. She had never travelled without her family, and now here she was, in the summer capital of the Raj! And with Sarita, too – wise, charming, kind Sarita, who knew so much of the world. How excited she was! “ _Didi_ , aren’t you glad you are back in Simla?”

Sarita looked at Kaveri, a strange smile on her lips. Looking at the hilltop, she whispered, “I suppose I am, yes.”


	6. Chapter 6

_**June 1935,** _

 

_**Simla.** _

**_  
_** The Simla skies were overcast and Sarita regretted wearing her pale yellow _sari_ out to town. It'd been a gift from Dinesh’s family. Dinesh had asked his mother to pick out something in yellow because he thought the colour would suit Sarita; she didn’t care much for it herself— yellow had never been her colour.

At that moment though, she prayed that the rains wouldn’t ruin the _sari_. She was out in the market to get supplies for her needlework. Contrary to all their plans, the cousins had been stuck inside _Sumitra Nivas_ for the past week, for Kaveri had taken ill within hours of their arrival in Simla. Sarita didn't wish to leave her alone, so she went back to embroidering handkerchiefs and blouses for her dowry. She was relieved when she ran out of silk thread: it meant she could finally step out and see how the summer capital had changed over the last three years.

Not much had changed in the appearance of Simla, but underneath there was a churning. On the roads, in the shops, by the wayside: the Indians looked wary, regarding the British with more defiance now. They were making their way into their shops on the Mall and their social circles at the Royal Simla Club, which now had an ever-increasing Indian membership – much to the ire of Cynthia Coffin. The Indian presence and the call for self-rule could no longer be brushed aside by the colonials. There were rumours also of extremist activity around Simla, which Indu had related to Sarita in hushed tones. “Those revolutionaries from Bengal are up to mischief,” she had said “ _Bibi_ , they use grenades and bombs to kill the _angrez_! Every other night there are raids in our part of town to catch them. Only God or Gandhi _baba_ can save us now…”

Despite the simmering, Simla seemed sedate that morning. As Sarita walked back from the market, she decided to pass through the tea estates, like she had on her first evening in Simla three years ago. She stood at the fork where she had first met Ramu Sood. She saw his face clearly before her eyes, but their time together was a hazy memory now. Had she been a fool for not visiting him in his last hours?

She felt uneasy as she made her way back on to the public road. The workers lazed around on the terraced estate grounds, resting as they ate lunch. Sarita could hear one of workers’ voice booming over the others’ laughter. She squinted at him in the high noon and saw that he was a head taller than most men there, and was similarly clad in a _dhoti_ and a loose, dirty cotton shirt. But his skin was fair and his Hindi, though fluent, sounded foreign to the ear. She walked down to the terrace and stared in disbelief.

It was Ian McLeod.

“Mr McLeod!” Sarita called out, incredulous. “What in the world!”

McLeod looked up and recognition dawned upon his face. “Sarita!” he sprung forth to greet her, “How lovely to see you, all beauty and grace! I didn’t know you were back in town.” It was odd to see him out of his suit, hair scruffy and face hardened due to what seemed like years’ worth of toil in the tea gardens. “How long has it been, five years?”

“Three, in fact…” Sarita answered distractedly. She was pleased to see him again, but his transformation was so acute that she was dumbstruck. “Goodness me, Mr McLeod, look at you! What brought this on…you didn’t drink yourself into bonded labour, did you?” she finally managed. She wished she had put on a different sari. Fortunately, she had put her hair up quite nicely today, so perhaps that would be her saving grace. 

Ian laughed heartily. He looked older since they had last walked in these very tea gardens, three years ago. They had become friends – good friends – during Sarita’s last days in Simla. They'd spoken fondly of Ramu Sood and of their lives, ambitions, and fears. 

But soon it had been time to leave and they never spoke after Sarita returned to Delhi. She had presumed that Ian had returned to Scotland. 

And now here he was, dressed like his workers and quite possibly working as hard as them, too. He looked happier, as well. Still laughing, he explained, “I don’t own the estate anymore. It is in my name, but all of us own it. And all of us work on it. It’s everyone’s estate, and no one’s.”

“Ah, so you are a communist; that explains it.”

“Come inside for a cup of our finest, won’t you?”

Sarita hesitated. “My cousin must be awaiting me for lunch; she is ill, so I must head back…”

“Ah, so you have been sent with a _chaperone_. I was wondering how you were allowed to return to Simla.” Ian grinned, his eyes crinkling.

“It’s the other way round, I’m afraid. She’s only twenty, and I’m—” her breath hitched, “I’m engaged to be married. So _I’m_ the chaperone, see.” She smiled uncertainly, gauging how Ian might react.

“Engaged!” he exclaimed, arms akimbo. “Why, I thought you’d be married within the year, Sarita! Successfully fended off your bloodthirsty family, then?” He didn’t seem upset or worried. Sarita felt her stomach drop at such a mild reaction from Ian McLeod.

“Alas, not forever; we are to be wed in August.” A nervous pause. “What about you? A Mrs McLeod that I might be introduced to?”

“Ah, no,” he waved her away, “I’ve hardly left the estate in the last three years. Besides, everyone here thinks I’m mad; hardly an attractive trait is it?”

Sarita felt a warm rush upon hearing that; she tried to take her mind off it. “Unattractive, you say? I suppose it would be safe to invite you to tea next week, then. You wouldn’t flirt with my poor cousin, would you?”

“I shan’t misbehave.” he said with his hand on his heart. “Besides,” he leaned in, with mischief in his eye that took Sarita quite by surprise, “if you wear your hair like this when I visit, I doubt I’d be able to take my eyes off of you at all.”

 

*

It was the end of July, and in a week it would be time for Sarita and Kaveri to return to Delhi. Away from the heat of the plains and her nagging mother, Kaveri’s health had improved greatly. The daytime ban on Indians on Mall Road had been relaxed considerably, so they would dress up in their finest saris and peruse the shop-windows every other week. Sarita had spotted Mr Saunders on one such visit, but he slinked away on spotting her.

Kaveri yearned to visit the Royal Simla Club. Ian McLeod had said Sooni’s brother was the first Indian to become a member there, and others soon followed. Aafrin Dalal was doing very well for himself, but Ian suspected him of being a part of the revolutionaries’ plan to attack the British in Simla. “Mr Khan of the Simla Times has been investigating a scandal sheet that has been circulated, threatening the Viceroy; Sooni and I are helping. I have a hunch that her brother is involved…and so does she.” He refused to elaborate upon it until he knew more.

Sarita saw a lot more of Ian now. A ritual had evolved where he came to _Sumitra Nivas_ for tea every few days. They would never be alone; Kaveri would always join them, and would blush furiously at the smallest compliment from Ian. He flirted with Sarita on days he was happier. It was all in jest, but it would send her in a tizzy all the same. On the afternoons Ian was to visit, Sarita found herself humming as she arranged the tea-tray and did up her hair.

The cousins would visit the Armitage estate on their days out, but more often than not they were not the only ones there. Sooni Dalal and Mr Khan would run in and out, talking about an absconding terrorist and assassination plots. Sarita didn’t care much for any of it, but she saw clearly that Ian was infatuated with the girl and went out of his way to help her. Could he not see that Mr Khan of the Simla Times fancied Miss Dalal, too? Even Sarita had figured that out, despite meeting him only twice.

She'd chide herself. She was engaged to a good man, and she couldn’t— _shouldn’t_ —allow herself to feel anything but friendship for Ian McLeod. But she’d started toying with the idea of confessing her feelings to him. Perhaps his refusal – and refuse he would, for he had given his heart to Sooni Dalal – would quash the affection she felt for him. Maybe she would tell him that very afternoon, when he came for tea.

She picked out a lovely blue _sari_ and secured her hair to one side with an ivory comb, letting the rest cascade down her shoulder in soft waves. Kaveri was shocked at her boldness. “Didi, won’t you tie your hair up properly? You look like the English women, with their loose hair and looser morals!” Sarita shushed her, glancing in the mirror. Surely, Ian would prefer her wise elegance over Sooni Dalal’s childish obstinacy? 

“Go see if Indu has is making the _samosas_ ; Ian will be here any moment.”

 

At half past four, Ian McLeod walked across the little garden with a spring in his step. He raised an eyebrow upon seeing Sarita’s unusual mien. “Your hair; I’ve never seen it worn down before. Something special today, eh?”

_Perhaps it will be_ , Sarita thought, smiling demurely as he sat down, placing his hat on the table. “I’m glad you like it. You’re late, Ian.”

He looked at the empty chair beside him. “Where’s our little Kaveri? Sick again, is she?”

“No.” Sarita had sent Kaveri to the market with Indu on some pretext so that she may speak with Ian alone. He sat there grinning in spite of himself. “What is it?”

“I have something to tell you, Sarita.” He almost jumped out of his seat with glee. “I want you to know—it must remain our little secret, however.”

Sarita felt a tingling in her arms. “What is it?” she repeated nervously.

“I’m going to ask Sooni Dalal to marry me.”

 Sarita stared at him, stunned. She’d known this would happen; she just hadn’t expected it to happen _today_. The fact that she was to be Ian’s confidante made it worse. “That is great news, Mr McLeod,” she said, eyes averted. “Won’t you have some tea?”

Ian gawked at her. “ _That’s_ your answer? I just told you I am going to ask my Sooni, my heart’s delight, to marry me – and you have nothing to say?”

“Well, it hardly comes as a surprise,” Sarita retorted, irritated, “I’d wager everyone in Simla knows you’re smitten with Miss Dalal except Miss Dalal herself!” Her chest felt constricted; she bit her lower lip to stop it from quivering. She wanted nothing more than to tell him what was in her heart. Oh, why couldn’t he have just waited until after she’d confessed!

Ian looked hurt. “Well, forgive me for being in love. I’d hoped—”

He was cut short by the creaking of the garden gate. There stood a young Indian man wearing a dark suit and gleaming brogues. He wore horn-rimmed spectacles and carried a large leather bag in his hand. He had thick, wavy black hair that had been combed flat to one side with a lot of pomade; it made him look much older than he really was. He had gotten rid of that awful pencil moustache however, thank heavens.

“Dinesh!” Sarita cried, whipping out of her chair.

For a moment, she thought Dinesh Tripathi was here because she had thought of confessing her love for another man. She dismissed that thought and concentrated on greeting her fiancé. Who was now confusedly taking in the scene: his intended sat—now stood—with a _dhoti_ -clad British man at a cozy tea-table, and they were conspicuously alone.

“Dinesh, what—I thought you were to return in August?” Sarita smoothed her hair, flustered. 

“They let me off early in London. I didn't write to anyone about it because I wanted to surprise you…” his gaze settled on Ian again, “which I seem to have managed.”

“Oh, I must introduce you, of course!” she said, hurriedly walking up to Dinesh. “Mr McLeod owns the Armitage tea estate here.” She turned to Ian, plastering on a polite smile. “Mr McLeod, this is Mr Dinesh Tripathi. He and I are to be wed next month.”

Ian’s eyes widened. “Oh, you’re the fiancé!” He exclaimed, shaking Dinesh’s hand vigorously. “I didn’t believe Sarita when she said she was engaged.”

Dinesh looked askance at the Scot. “I didn’t know you and Miss Goyal were such good…friends.” 

“Just old acquaintances, really. We have tea together, sometimes.” Sarita answered.

Ian took a cue from her harried reaction. “I have somewhere to be myself, actually,” he looked at Sarita meaningfully. “But it was a pleasure meeting you, Dinesh. Congratulations! And to you, _Miss Goyal_.” he added mockingly. Touching the brim of his hat, Ian exited _Sumitra Nivas_ leaving the betrothed couple in silence.

Sarita and Dinesh stood awkwardly at an arm’s length from each other. They had never even held hands, so hugging – or even a chaste kiss on the cheek – was unthinkable.

“What are you…?” Sarita trailed off. She was wondering how was he had even managed to convince their families to let him come meet her before their wedding: so far away from home, alone and unsupervised.

“You needn’t worry; everyone at home knows I’m here. The College sent me to make an express delivery to the Secretriat. Urgent business regarding funds…”

Sarita nodded. Dinesh cleared his throat, and added in a small voice, “I volunteered, actually. I just thought—since you were here…I thought it’d be nice to see you.”

“Of course.” Sarita’s voice was polite, but it lacked the warmth one might reserve for one's future husband. “I’ll tell Kaveri to move in with me and you can take her room.”

“Surely you don’t mean that?” Dinesh frowned at her. “We’re not _married_ yet, Sarita. It would be inappropriate of me to stay here. I’m put up at The Cecil.”

“Oh.”

“Perhaps we can have lunch next week. Bring Kaveri along; we don’t want to be too risqué, dining by ourselves.” He smiled uncertainly at Sarita.

She nodded, avoiding his eye.

“Well, I came here straight from the station…so I should—I think shall go to the hotel now.”

Sarita walked with him to the _rickshaw_ and waved goodbye. She stood staring at the top of the lane long after he was gone. Dinesh’s arrival reminded her that things had changed since three years ago, and her choices had been made for her. She would have to stop pretending otherwise.

 

Especially when it came to Ian McLeod.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**_August 1935,_ **

**_Simla._ **

 

“…which is why this Act shall be decisive for the freedom struggle. Some of us at the College feel…”

Sarita had stopped listening as soon as Dinesh had started talking about his expectations from the Government of India Act, which was to be passed any day now. Unlike Sarita, Dinesh felt entitled to hold forth—patronisingly, at times—on how the Indian leaders might be more successful in obtaining swaraj if they did so-and-so instead. While Dinesh prided himself on his armchair intellectuality, Sarita found it quite irksome. So her mind drifted away—mostly to Ian McLeod—every time Dinesh started discoursing thusly.

They were lunching at The Cecil, as Dinesh had suggested two days ago. Kaveri, filling in as their chaperone, was now wide-eyed with admiration for Dinesh. “You know so much about everything, _bhaiyya_!”

“He wouldn’t be much of a professor if he didn’t _know things_ , would he?” Sarita replied with a tight smile.

Dinesh looked taken aback. “What do you think about the Act, Sarita?” he ventured.

“Nothing. I do not care for it.”

“No? Why?”

Sarita inhaled sharply, irritated. “Because it changes nothing for me. I am still to marry you and give up Goyal Textile Company. Nothing will change that.” She sounded harsher than she’d meant to be.

Dinesh’s face fell slightly as he looked at Kaveri before asking in a low voice, “Do you not want to get married, Sarita?”

Kaveri took a cue and left hurriedly, mumbling something about wanting to see the hotel’s famed gardens.

Sarita looked around at the few patrons lazing over their lunches before turning back to Dinesh. “What I want doesn’t matter; I’ll have to get married someday, and I’d rather it was to you than a simpleton from my father’s village. But don’t you see: till now, my life had a purpose. I was contributing to something that has been in my family for generations—and in good measure, too! Once we’re married, I’ll be nothing more than a wife and a mother.”

Dinesh frowned. “That is no mean feat, being a good wife and mother.”

“Perhaps; but I don’t think it would be enough for me. How can it ever be enough?” Sarita struggled to regain her composure. For far too long she’d resisted thinking about whether or not she actually wanted to marry Dinesh; now was not the time to question her imminent future. “But as I said: it doesn’t matter what I want.” She returned her gaze to her lap, toying with the slim engagement ring on her left hand.

There was a short silence. When she finally met his gaze, Dinesh was looking at Sarita intently. Was he offended by her frankness? Would he call off the wedding?

Dinesh stood up. “Come with me,” he said, helping Sarita out of her chair. Ensuring that Kaveri was still in the gardens, Dinesh took Sarita up to his room.

“Would you mind stepping inside?”

Sarita looked nervously down the empty corridor.

“It won’t take too long, I promise. You can trust me,” he smiled at her, his eyes softening. He held the door open.

Sarita entered the room and Dinesh closed the door behind them.

“Sit,” he said, going over to the beautiful teak wardrobe and rummaging for something. Sarita sat perched on the edge of the bed, disconcerted. She felt a tingling in her arms as she realised it was the first time they were alone together.

Dinesh returned with a small package wrapped in cream-coloured paper. “I bought this for you from London.” Sarita opened it, curious. It was a bottle of Yardley’s perfume. “The classic English Lavender,” Dinesh said, “they say every lady must own a bottle.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you—”

Dinesh cut her short by taking the bottle out of her hands. “That’s the thing. You see, I was going to give this to you as a wedding gift. I thought you’d love it, most women would. But you aren’t like most women, are you? The last fifteen minutes’ve taught me that.” He put the perfume aside and sat down beside her on the bed. “So I want to give you something better.”

To Sarita’s surprise, Dinesh reached out and laid his hand on hers, touching her for the first time since they’d known each other. “I’m my father’s only son and the heir to his mills, which entails a lot of duties. Business was never my strong suit, so my father took care of it all himself. But he’s growing old now, and he needs help. How would you like to run Tripathi Mills with him in my stead?”

Sarita stared at Dinesh, her brow furrowed. “You—you’re asking me to work for your father?”

“ _With_ him. You and I shall be joint heirs to the mills. I have no intention of getting involved in the family business, so you’ll be the one actually running it. It’s not Goyal Textile Mills, I admit; but you can still do great things with it, Sarita. You could pass it onto our children some day, as your own legacy.”

“Does your father approve of this?”

“I will speak to him on my return to Delhi; he will not refuse. You will have everything I have just promised you; I give you my word.”

Sarita shook her head in disbelief. “ _No_! This is too much. I never should’ve said anything…”

Dinesh squeezed her hand gently. “I’m glad you did. I might not be as ardent as your Mr McLeod—” he shushed Sarita as she tried to interject at the mention of the Scot. “But I do love you, Sarita. I want to make you happy.” He kissed her fingertips. “I promise to keep you happy.” He brushed his lips gently against the inside of her wrist, eliciting a small ‘ _oh_ ’ from an astonished Sarita.

He drew her closer, grazing her cheek with his thumb. “Won’t you let me to make you happy?” he whispered. Sarita held his gaze, transfixed; the now-familiar smell of his pomade ensconced her and she slowly nodded.

And then Dinesh’s lips were on hers, soft and gentle. The tingling in her arms returned and her skin turned into gooseflesh. His touch, earnest and anxious to please, mirrored his feelings.

Sarita closed her eyes and kissed him back.

 

 

* 

 

 

On the morning before Sarita’s return to Delhi, Sooni Dalal came around with an invitation.“I’m getting married this afternoon, Sarita _ji_. It’s all quite sudden, but—”

Sarita stiffened. So Ian McLeod was now truly lost to her. “Oh yes, I know. He’d said he was going to propose. Do your parents approve?”

Sooni shrugged. “No. Perhaps they’ll come around some day. I do love him…”

“Well congratulations!” Sarita said braving a smile, “Will you stay on the estate, or take up a place in the town?”

Sooni frowned, confused. “Estate? Mr Khan doesn’t own an estate. We’ll live with his _chachajaan_ until we find suitable accommodation. What’s the matter? You’ve gone quite pale!”

 

 

Sarita spent the next four hours labouring over whether or not she ought to confess to Ian what she felt for him. If she had found out that Sooni had turned Ian down _before_ the incident with Dinesh at The Cecil, she would have wasted no time in hunting Ian down and telling him that she loved him. 

 

But ever since Dinesh had kissed her and promised to make her happy, she had started to wonder if she’d judged him too quickly. However, now that Sooni didn’t want Ian…perhaps Sarita ought to take her chances: maybe Ian felt the same way? If he didn’t, however, she’d never be able to take it back, and how would that affect her marriage with Dinesh? Suppose, by some miracle, Ian did in fact come to love her: would she be brave enough to then call off her engagement with Dinesh? Would she be ready to break his heart, cut all ties with her loved ones – for they would surely disown her if she chose Ian – and worst of all, let down her beloved father? Her mind buzzed with a billion questions as she picked out her richly embroidered mauve _sari_ for Sooni and Naseem’s wedding celebrations. She twisted and tucked her hair to frame her face, securing it with her precious ivory combs. 

 

As the sun set on Simla that evening, the air turned biting cold. Sarita’s inner turmoil didn’t show through her quiet grace as she walked with Kaveri to the venue of the dinner party. She fiddled with the engagement ring on her finger, thinking of the day before, when she’d bid Dinesh goodbye.

_I shall wait for you, my darling,_ Dinesh had said when she’d seen him off at the railway station, _I shall count fervently the days until I see you again._

Her opinion of Dinesh had improved greatly now, but it would be better to have loved and lost with Ian, than not having confessed her love at all. And so she would find him tonight and tell him. One way or another, she had to find closure tonight.

Sooni and Naseem were entertaining their guests around a huge bonfire. Sarita spotted Sooni’s brother, Aafrin with Alice Whelan. Rumour had it they were eloping together; rumour also had it Ramu Sood’s kin had bought Ralph Whelan’s bungalow in an auction that morning—much was happening in Simla. The cousins greeted the newlyweds and complimented Sooni on her trousseau. Sarita left Kaveri with Sooni to find Ian.

She found him smoking under a tree, a few ways from the wedding party. He wore a suit. The smell of toddy hung in the air around him: he’d been drinking.

“I heard you made quite the scene in the market today.” Indu had told Sarita that McLoed _saab_ had drunkenly accosted Ralph Whelan’s man-servant in public that morning.

Ian turned around, greeting Sarita with a nod. “He was the one who killed Jaya Mohan. I’m sure of it.”

“ _Whelan’s_ man? But why?” Sarita asked, shocked.

“Do you remember that boy, Jaya’s son? I have reason to believe he’s Whelan’s bastard.”

“So Whelan got her killed and Ramu had to take the fall for it?”

“It would appear so.” he said grimly, flicking the cigarette away.

Sarita had a hundred questions, but they’d all have to wait. Clearing her throat, Sarita hazarded, “I’m surprised you decided to come here tonight.”

He smiled ruefully, his pain evident. “I’m mad—I must be. She broke my heart and here I am, eating her wedding cake.”

“I’m sorry, Ian.” Sarita’s voice was a strained whisper.

“Where did I go wrong?”

“Come now, there is no use dwelling on what might’ve been.”

“It’ll pass with time, I suppose. You must think me a fool, eh?” he scoffed.

“I don’t.” This was her only chance, so she blurted out before she could second-guess herself. “You aren’t the only one nursing a broken heart.”

Ian looked at her, frowning. Then comprehension dawned on his face.

Sarita nodded, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. “I think I love you, Mr McLeod.”

Ian was dumbstruck. He gaped at Sarita for what seemed like an eternity, trying to string words together. “But I never—I don’t understand…you’re _engaged_.”

“I am.” Sarita said quietly. “But I wanted to let you know just the same. I would’ve regretted leaving without telling you.” She paused, hoping Ian would say something; he didn’t. So she continued, “You needn’t worry, I don’t expect reciprocation. I leave tomorrow and we’ll never see each other again, so it shouldn’t be much of a concern.”

Ian appeared deep in thought. Sarita waited for him to speak, the pit in her stomach growing by the second. Now it felt like she’d made a terrible mistake. “Clearly, the thought is much too appalling for you to even remark upon.” Silence. She felt her face grow hot with shame. “Well, I won’t embarrass you further; good night, Mr McLeod, and goodbye.” She started back towards the bonfire, tears stinging her eyes.

“Sarita, wait. _WAIT_!”

Sarita spun around to see Ian trotting towards her, a frown still in place. “It isn’t,” he panted as he reached her. “…the thought—it isn’t appalling. It’s just that I never thought of it until now…” he swallowed. “Believe me when I say that you’ve been a true friend to me. The kind I would want by my side through everything. It would be insincere of me to say that I love you, because at this moment, I don’t. But perhaps…”

Sarita stood with bated breath. _What_?

“Most will say I’m too drunk and too broken-hearted for what I’m about to do, but if there’s anything I’ve learnt from losing Sooni, it’s that I’d rather seem hasty than be prudent. So bear with me, Sarita, and consider this proposition, every word of which I truly mean.” Ian exhaled deeply, as if readying himself. “Would you like to help me run our modest little estate: as my friend and as my wife?”

Sarita couldn’t believe her ears. “You’re asking me to marry you?” she asked, dazed. “But you don’t love me.”

“I don’t, not yet. But marriage needs more than just love: it needs trust and friendship. It needs quite contentment with one another and it needs humour: and I realise that you and I have it all. I’ve found home here in India, and I’ve found my purpose; but I can’t live a full life without a family. We could build a world for ourselves here: as partners, as equals. In time, love shall come around, won’t it? It always does.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Wouldn’t you rather take a chance on the possibility of love than marry a man you feel nothing for?”

“I—” Sarita started, then stopped. He wasn’t wrong. She wasn’t indifferent to Dinesh anymore: but that didn’t mean she had fallen in love with him either.

“It’s a big decision; take all the time you need. We can speak at length tomorrow.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” Sarita said distractedly, still trying to make sense of everything Ian had just said.

“So _don’t_ leave. Stay here, with me. Marry me.” He took her hands in his, his eyes so full of promise that for a moment, Sarita was convinced.

She shook herself. “No. This is your broken heart talking.”

“Maybe; but you can help me heal. I know I can come to love you as you love me, Sarita—might take a while, but it will happen. I do see a future with you, a happy one. We’ll get there. And I that is _not_ my broken heart talking: I mean every word of it.”

Silence.

Ian sensed Sarita’s dilemma. “You don’t have to answer right away. But promise me you will, eventually?”

“It doesn’t matter what my answer is once I’m aboard the train tomorrow,” Sarita said, eyes averted.

“Then decide before you get on it. If it’s Dinesh that you want, then by all means: take the train back to him. But if you choose me,” Ian’s spoke faster now, more excited, “I’ll be waiting for you at Scandal Point at dawn. Meet me there, and we’ll elope.” 

He kissed her fingers—exactly where Dinesh had kissed them the other day. “I hope you’ll choose me. But I’d understand if you don’t—listen only to your heart, Sarita.” With that, he walked back to the party while Sarita stood rooted on the spot, trying to wrap her head around what had just happened.

Dinesh, a man she didn’t love, had promised to do everything he could to keep her happy. _But could he?_ Ian, the man she did love, was asking her to elope with him because he believed he’d someday come to love her. _But would he?_ Both men promised her the opportunity to make more of her life than being just a wife and a mother, but her happiness was at stake if she chose the wrong suitor. And the choice had to be made before sunrise.

On that unusually cold night, the residents of Simla were treated to a delightful surprise: it started to snow. Sarita, however, hardly noticed the pristine flecks that fell upon her as she tried to make the most important decision of her life:

Would she go to Scandal Point at dawn the next morning, or take the train back to Delhi?

 

 

*   *   *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this series; thank you for reading. Leave me a note if you have any comments or suggestions. Cheers!


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